Refuge
by Bullfinch
Summary: After God knows how many awful, stumbling hours, they made it out, barely. But Stiles doesn't feel like they did. One-shot. Gen.


**A/N:** I originally wrote this for the Teen Wolf fanfiction contest, so I stole some themes from my first fic. Apologies for self-plagiarism.

—

They don't talk. They can't afford to. Stiles doesn't know how big their head start is, but his best guess says "not very," and there are werewolves chasing them, and he's only human.

Only human.

He's intensely aware of it now, like he can feel every fiber of his muscles tighten and extend, feel the walls of each blood vessel stretch and strain under the rhythmic pressure of his bounding pulse. He wonders if werewolves ever get like this. If they ever find themselves shoved up this hard against the walls of their own limitations.

He could ask Derek. He has a feeling Derek would say yes.

Because Derek's not looking too good.

It's mainly the bullet wound that draws Stiles's attention. On his outer forearm. It's got the same symptoms as the last wolfsbane bullet Stiles saw, dark lightning-strike veins radiating out from the messy red hole. Derek clamps a hand over it.

Stiles isn't so worried about the flesh wound. He's worried about how, even in the predawn half-light, he can see that Derek looks like death warmed over.

It's a dumb question, he knows that even as he's forming the words, but it comes out anyway. "Are you okay?"

Derek spares him an irritated glare. Okay, he deserves that. "No."

"Are you gonna die?"

Derek looks down at the wound. "Don't think so. Keep moving."

So they run.

It's tough going. They're heading across the slope, and Stiles keeps slipping on the dry leaves, crashing to his hands and knees. It doesn't help that he's struggling for breath already. It's almost like a panic attack, but those were finite, a few minutes of helplessness, and he doesn't know how long they've been running. How long they'll have to keep running. Every sound he hears behind them sends another sick jolt of fear reverberating around inside him. His lungs are worked to capacity, then further. The inside surfaces feel scraped and raw. Each breath is salt in the wound.

He glances over. Derek's face is grim. (Derek's face is always grim. But there's an extra edge here, a tightness he's never seen.) Stiles slips again, falls. Derek stumbles to a stop, waits for him to get up.

But not this time. Stiles shakes his head. "This is stupid. This is stupid. I can't keep going."

"What?" Harsh, but blown-out. Derek's out of breath too.

"Can't keep going. I can't." It's true, as far as he can tell. His legs are too tired, won't plant his feet back under him. "Just go without me."

Derek's head snaps to the right, and he's silent for a moment, like he's listening. Then back to Stiles. "They're still coming. Get up. We have to move."

Stiles finds himself both baffled and frustrated at Derek's sudden bullish insistence on keeping him alive. "I just told you, I can't. I'll slow you down. Go."

Derek steps toward him, looms. "Stiles. Get up or I'll—"

But he cuts himself off there. Stiles realizes why a second later, and the laughter hurts coming out of him, his lungs breaking from their heaving rhythm. "You'll what? Rip my throat out with your teeth?" The absurdity is unbearably funny to him right now, how empty Derek's threats are and have always been, how the exaggerated violence is _nothing_ compared to what's chasing them. "Well, that'd probably save 'em some time when they catch up with—"

Stiles stops, noticing for the first time how pale Derek is, how he won't let the pain show on his face but the effort it takes to do that shows anyway. His fingers squeeze the flesh of his injured arm so hard his knuckles turn white. Derek doesn't snap, or yell, just shuts his eyes briefly. "Stiles. Get up or I'll knock you out and carry you."

And that would definitely end with both of them dead, which is exactly what Stiles was trying to avoid in the first place. But he thinks Derek might actually do it, so he pushes himself to his feet (literally, hands splaying on the bed of leaves) and keeps running.

It's different now that giving up isn't an option. Everything is much simpler. They cannot stop. The running becomes mechanical rather than desperate. The fear is still there, huge and absolute, but it's a given now. He's numb to it. Derek stops every so often, cocks his head, listens. Every time he keeps running.

But Stiles is only human and his muscles are beginning to fail. His leg shakes and collapses and won't take his weight again. He's ready to start scrabbling forward on hands and knees until something hauls him up by the back of his shirt and pitches him forward.

Derek. With his one good arm. He grunts with the effort.

Stiles swears he won't let it happen again. Derek's obviously set on saving his life for some dumb reason, even though just the act of helping Stiles up costs him, with the wolfsbane suffocating his strength like this.

But it happens anyway, when Stiles's body won't obey the singular command radiating from his brain—the _run run run_ that's become so deeply ingrained it's not even a word anymore, just an inexorable truth. He falls. Derek picks him up and keeps him going. Stiles might be grateful. He might be ashamed. It's hard to tell. He's exhausted.

But Derek stumbles more and more.

Stiles notices, gradually. Derek's deteriorating. The strain fractures his face.

Then suddenly he's not at Stiles's side anymore.

Stiles catches a tree trunk and stops himself, turning. Derek's on the ground. He's slow getting up.

Stiles doesn't even think. This is just like the running. This is necessary. Automatic. He backtracks. He doesn't have werewolf strength, so he kneels, slings one of Derek's arms over his shoulder, wraps his own arm around the other man's waist, and heaves them both upright.

Derek's heavy, but it works. He separates himself from Stiles as soon as they're on their feet. Pride, maybe. Or pragmatism. Either way, they're moving again. Through this interminable forest. The sun's up. Morning mist slides thickly down the slope. Stiles has given up on ever finding an end to this. They're hopelessly lost by now. The wolves are still on their tail. He's running on fumes at best, and has been for a while.

Something catches his eye. A splash of cyan.

It's a paint splotch, on the bark of a tree. A trail marker. Stiles grabs for Derek, points at it. "Trail. Let's take it." The words are barely words, riding on his labored exhalations. He can see reluctance in Derek's expression, so he elaborates. "Civilization. Wolves won't attack us."

Derek nods, too out of breath to speak, and pushes Stiles toward the square of paint.

It's not much of a trail. And it runs mostly across the slope, dipping only gently down the mountain. Not what Stiles was hoping for. But it's something. They follow the squares of paint, navigating the rocks and roots that trip them up.

The trees are thick as ever. Stiles's body is spent at last, and the wolfsbane has finally bled Derek of all of his unnatural endurance. Eventually they fall together, supporting each other as they cross the mountain. Stiles presses his palms against Derek's chest and lower back, keeping him upright; Derek leans his shoulder into Stiles, catching him when his weak leg gives out. It's a necessity born of unspoken knowledge: if either collapses, the other won't have the strength to pick him up again.

It occurs to Stiles how strange this is. The two of them, relying completely on each other without complaint or reserve, even though Derek is an Alpha and he's only human. He remembers how scared he used to be of Derek. Not anymore. Alone, he'd be dead by now, for sure. But if Derek's there to keep him standing, he might be able to make it out. And if Stiles is there, Derek might be able—

Derek lurches to a stop. He's staring ahead, mostly-concealed panic skipping across his features. "There's someone—"

A figure in black steps out smartly from behind a tree, approaching fast. And aiming a rifle at them.

Stiles moves without thinking, shoves Derek back and positions himself between Derek and the figure in black. Whom he can now see is Chris Argent.

Chris Argent, who kills werewolves for a living.

Stiles flings one hand out, plants the other on Derek's chest. He hears Derek growl, a short, sharp burst. This can't happen, not after— "Wait wait wait, Mr. Argent, please don't shoot him, he just saved my life." A pause for breath. He can feel Derek's heartbeat under his palm, thumping so hard it practically vibrates his bones, can hear Derek's harsh panting. "I'd be dead without him. Please don't shoot him."

Silence, except for gulped breaths from Stiles and Derek. The unsureness is actually painful (though that might just be because his entire body hurts), because Stiles tries to envision how he'd react if Chris Argent killed Derek, and doesn't even know where to begin.

But Argent's better nature appears to win out. He lowers his rifle, jerks his head sideways. "You better get out of here."

He's talking to Derek, who stands abruptly, once again clutches his bullet wound, and trudges away across the mountain, staggering. Stiles watches him retreat, open-mouthed, not knowing what to say. It seems incredibly unfair. After all this. He's pretty sure the presence of hunters will keep the enemy wolves at bay, but Derek is sick and far from home, and now he's alone. Stiles wants to go after him, is about to take a step when Chris Argent speaks up. "Scott's waiting for you."

He turns, dazed. Argent doesn't look pleased about what he's just done. Stiles is too drained to take this fight on right now, so he just stumbles down the mountain, stopping to rest every few yards.

"Stiles!"

It's Scott, sprinting toward him. "Oh my God, I thought you were _dead_—"

"Fine." Stiles swallows, lets Scott take his weight. "I'm fine."

"Where's Derek?"

"Allison's dad scared him off." That comes out with more hostility than he thought he had left in him. "He just—he practically carried me here—"

"Hey." Scott pats him on the back, gently. "Worry about you, not him. He can take care of himself."

Stiles wants to say _no, not right now he can't. _But Derek's more than human, and what if he was just supporting Stiles the whole time, and didn't actually _need_ help? It didn't feel like that, but—Stiles shuts his eyes. Maybe it did. He's exhausted. His mind won't coalesce. Scott puts him in the back of a car. He barely notices, lists sideways, falls asleep on Scott's shoulder.

—

He's not running.

He scrambles, pushes himself to his hands and knees. He's alone. Panic constricts his chest. Where's Derek? He needs to go back. He spins.

Band posters. Bookcases. Desk lamp.

Stiles blinks, takes deep breaths, tries to figure out what's going on.

This is his room.

He stays there a minute, kneeling on the bed. He knows what he's seeing but can't process it. He doesn't even remember coming here. It feels false and that's dangerous. Because if he's still in the forest, he needs to be running, and the forest is endless.

He's not in the forest.

For some reason that doesn't make sense to him at all.

He squints out the window. Sunset.

None of this answers his question.

Where's Derek?

—

He would go straight back to sleep, but he is incredibly hungry. Improbably hungry. So he goes downstairs. His dad is there. Apparently Scott covered for him. Something about a sleepover. Stiles runs with it. He really hates lying to his dad, but telling the truth would be a hundred times worse. _Hey, sorry, I just spent the night running from feral man-creatures who were trying to kill me, but it's cool, I got away._ He imagines how worried, how angry his dad would be if he knew his only son's life was under constant threat.

That's the last thing he needs to think about right now.

He goes back upstairs.

When his alarm clock wakes him the next morning, the soreness has faded, but despite the eighteen hours of sleep, he's still tired. Maybe it's the dreams. Bits and pieces come back to him as he eats breakfast. Morning mist. The sounds of harsh breathing in his ear.

He drives to school.

School is close to unbearable. It's like moving through a haze. Everything seems inconsequential. Teachers rebuke him for not paying attention. Students lean against their lockers and talk about parties and lacrosse. No one knows what has happened to him. He walks to class and feels like he should be running. He finds himself alone in the hallway and jolts, whirling automatically to look for someone who's not there. Visions of the forest pound like waves in his head, crashing, receding, eclipsing what's right in front of his eyes.

He can't do this. He skips practice after school and goes straight home. But that's no better, because he's left sitting in a room that still doesn't seem real, exhausted but restless, missing the pressure at his shoulder that means that he's not alone. That he hasn't left Derek behind to die. That he might be able to make it out after all.

It's impossible to fall asleep. Last night was easy, the fatigue put him out in seconds flat, but now he can't even keep his eyes shut. Because something's trying to kill them. Derek's not there. Has fallen back. But no. He's at home. There's no one else here but his dad.

He gets close, once, grazing the edges of unconsciousness, but he loses track of where he is and lurches upright, his legs moving already, trying to stand, to run. That's the last straw.

He can't keep going like this.

He remembers the last time he felt anything close to safe, and it becomes obvious what he should do.

He grabs his car keys.

—

It occurs to him on the way that he doesn't know if Derek made it back. Or if Derek is even alive. The thought makes him drive faster for no clear reason.

Doubt seizes him as he descends the rail depot stairs, but he uses the downward momentum to force himself to keep going. The platform is deserted. He panics for just a second. Derek never made it back. Stiles should have gone with him, shouldn't have let him limp off like that alone—

"It's three in the morning."

Relief. He realizes his entire body has gone rigid, and he relaxes now, as Derek comes out of the break room. "Hey! Yeah. Sorry."

Derek rubs his eyes. He looks less like death than the last time Stiles saw him, but not by much. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh. Um, it's just that, the whole time, like, when you first pulled me out to when Mr. Argent almost shot you, I don't think I ever actually said thank you." This is awkward, suddenly. But he probably should have expected that. Derek takes it with complete impassivity. Stiles forges ahead. "So, basically, thanks. For saving me."

Silence. He thinks he's screwed up somehow. But Derek responds at last. "Stiles. I know." He lifts an eyebrow. "You didn't have to come down here at three a.m. and tell me."

"Oh." He swallows. Maybe he did screw up. Derek's obviously not recovered yet, and waking him in the middle of the night definitely won't help. Stiles goes to leave, but Derek speaks again.

"I guess I should thank you too."

Stiles turns.

"Probably wouldn't have made it without your help." Derek folds his arms.

"Um, you _definitely_ wouldn't have made it." Stiles points a finger in Derek's face. "Mr. Argent was, like, two seconds away from shooting you. If it weren't for brave innocent Stiles defending your virtuousness, you'd be _super_ dead."

"Yeah, well, I was only there in the first place because I had to stay back and _find_ you while the damn wolves cut me off from everyone else!" Derek takes a step forward, and Stiles shrinks back, because Derek is large and has sharp teeth. But he realizes suddenly that, despite—or because of—the threatening-looking werewolf currently invading his personal space, he feels safe. For the first time in two days. The forest fades. The mist recedes. This is real, the platform, Derek standing in front of him.

He pats Derek's chest. "I'm glad you're alive."

Derek recoils a little. "You are?"

"Yeah. Really." He grins.

"Stiles."

"Hm?"

"Why did you decide to come down here and tell me this at three in the morning?"

"I can't sleep. Kept thinking…" He didn't mean to elaborate. It's too late to stop. "…we were still there. Running." His grin is gone. He's okay now, but it might be a temporary respite, and he doesn't want to go back home and find out.

Again, silence from Derek; he just nods, drops his eyes. Then, finally, he tilts his head back toward the train car. "If you're gonna hang around here for a while, you might as well come sit down."

The grin comes back, and Stiles jogs past Derek toward the train car. Derek calls after him, "But only until you have school or whatever. I need to sleep. Stiles!"

Stiles, faced with the prospect of hanging out with a self-serious, mildly irritated werewolf for several hours, discovers there's no other way he'd rather spend his night. Because despite the fact that maybe two dozen words transpired between them on the mountain, something else emerged there, buried but bone-deep, something that holds him up and steadies him. The forest still lingers there, at the back of his mind, a ghost that won't be driven away so easily. But as he climbs into the dingy train car, catching Derek's glower as he ducks through the threshold, Stiles begins to think he might make it out after all.


End file.
